9 – 13 November 2026

Monday Fog warning. It’s impossible to see across the park. I walk to the Iron-age earthworks because it always feels appropriate in the fog, somehow. There are cobwebs strung thick between the gorse branches and the holly. Good time for a cobweb harvest, if you’re a fictional witch. Spend time trying to take the perfect photo – dewdrops strung like jewels – fail on the focus but I don’t really mind. The wood is magic. The fog trapped under the canopy falls in fat droplets. Squirrels leap. Tiny toadstools crown the fallen trunks sinking back into the earth. In the evening I drive to band. It’s so cold I can feel my internal organs shaking. Tuesday More fog. A grey blanket, no horizon. Outside the station two men draw desperately on vapes before they board the train. They create a sickly fug of their own. Thursday “This is me big coat. I haven’t got me big-big coat out yet.” We’ve all just missed the early train, so now we’re all early for the late train. People bump into friends and…

Commenting on Bubbles has been removed. Why? If you want to talk about this post, write to the author, use the comments on their blog if it has them, or reply with a "RE:" post on your own blog. Suggestions? feedback@bubbles.town